What Have You Done(5)
“That’s fine. You can call. If you can get them to fix the problem, I’d appreciate it.”
“But if they tell me it was running on time, well then, you and me are gonna have a word about that.” The greasy man reached under the counter and pressed the release button on the locked door. “Get to work.”
“Gracias.”
Raul slipped through the door and put down his coffee and donuts, rushing to begin his day.
“We still haven’t heard from B11,” Guzio called over his shoulder. “If he ain’t down here by the time you finish the first floor, go up and tell him to hit the road. He’s already pushing close to checkout time, and this ain’t no Marriott. I gotta get these rooms clean before four o’clock. I got a business to run.”
Raul pulled a mop and bucket from the broom closet and stood them against the wall with the rest of the things he’d need for the day. “Yes. No problem. If he’s not down when I finish this floor, I’ll tell him to get out.”
Two hours of sweeping, dusting, polishing, and mopping had elapsed, and the first floor was finally presentable enough for the upcoming night’s customers. The truth of the matter was these patrons wouldn’t care if the hotel was clean or if there were piles of cow manure filling the place. The folks who came in were there for one thing and one thing only. Keeping a presentable lobby meant very little. But Raul was told to clean it all up, so he did. Every day.
He took the last trash bag out the disengaged emergency exit to throw in the dumpster. When he came back in, Guzio was standing in the doorway to his booth.
“Our guy in B11 ain’t out yet,” he said. “Go get him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The book says his name’s Johnny Cash. Real funny. Says there’re two occupants. I want ’em both out.”
Fictitious names were common in the hotel sex business, but this one escaped Raul. “I’ll tell Mr. Cash to get out now.”
“You do that. And hurry. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a patient man.”
Raul made his way up the stairs toward B11. The entire floor was eerily quiet. The sun was shining through a lone window at the end of the hall, and he could see tiny dust particles floating in the air. His steps were muted by the carpet beneath him, and he was suddenly reminded of just how isolated he really was.
When Raul got to the door, he waited, staring at the numbers that were once carefully nailed into place and now hung crooked, reading like the beginning of a website address instead of a room marker: B//. The old steel door was peeling flakes of beige paint. Its gold knob was scratched from years of drunken customers blindly stabbing at the keyhole.
He raised his hand to knock, then paused. It dawned on him that he had no idea who was sleeping—or waiting—inside the room. This was not the type of hotel that had DO NOT DISTURB signs to post. One never knew what was going on beyond the many closed doors, and given the clientele the Tiger attracted, chances were good he’d be disturbing something. The idea that the guest had stayed the entire night was in itself strange. The hotel was a by-the-hour establishment, and most guests paid accordingly. Anyone staying the night paid triple and usually had something to hide. Raul’s uneasiness grew.
“Mr. Cash, you have to leave now,” he called, pounding on the door three times. Paint flakes fell to the carpet. He could feel his breath grow shallow. “Checkout time has passed. You have to leave.”
There was no answer. He cupped his ear to the door and listened for movement inside, but couldn’t hear anything.
“B11, you check out now. It’s morning. You have to go.”
Still no movement, no sound.
With his eyes on the door and apprehension about him, Raul slowly pulled a large chrome ring from the waist of his jeans and began flipping through the many keys fastened around it. His hands shook as he passed the numbers, one after the other, until he came upon the master key. “This is your last chance, Mr. Cash. I’m coming in now. You have to leave.”
Raul put the key in the lock and turned. “I’m coming,” he called, his voice betraying him by cracking. He could feel his face grow hotter as he pushed his way inside.
The same sunlight that was streaming through the hallway window filled the window inside B11. Part of the interstate was framed in the glass, showing cars speeding by on the curved road, then disappearing around the bend toward the city. In the foreground, Raul discovered what was waiting for him.
The woman’s body was limp, hung from an extension cord that had been pulled through exposed piping in the ceiling and tied off at the bed. She did not rock or sway but was completely still. There was blood. So much blood. On her legs and feet and down to the floor below. She was naked, her hair shaved with little precision. Her head was tilted to the side, eyes, red and swollen, staring out into nothing. The tip of her tongue escaped through the side of her mouth. She was looking his way, but above and past him. She had been beautiful once. Now there was only the butchery.
“No!” Raul screamed as he fell back out of the room and onto the filthy carpet in the hallway. More flakes of peeling paint fell on top of him as his foot hit the steel door. He blessed himself over and over as tears welled in his eyes and fear overtook him. The devil had come to the Tiger Hotel and left a most gruesome death in his wake. He would never forget this scene, despite the alcohol and the drugs and the sleepless night that would lie ahead. He would remember every detail, every sound, and every scent.